


For What It's Worth

by ginger_green



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Caretaking, Drug Addiction, Gen, Graphic Depictions of Illness, Hurt/Comfort, Introspection, Lyrium Withdrawal, Minor Anders/Male Hawke (Dragon Age), Reluctant Friendship, Whump, so much pain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-10
Updated: 2021-02-10
Packaged: 2021-03-18 07:22:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,252
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29239767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ginger_green/pseuds/ginger_green
Summary: "Look at me, Raleigh Samson. Look closely. I know you are in pain. I know you are frightened. But this is not who you are. There is more out there. More than what they made you."
Relationships: Anders & Raleigh Samson, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Comments: 7
Kudos: 9





	For What It's Worth

There was irony to it. Coming to a mage for help. Such was the bidding of Pain, and Pain was an old friend, trusted as a prisoner trusts his jailor. Pain, a million needles just below the skin, a bleeding sore that never fully heals. Pain that made fabric sting like nettle. Pain of every kind and variety, Pain of dawn and dusk, tiring and jolting, burning, freezing. Pain that slowly wilted him into a husk - a shell to be filled with the precious dust.

It has driven him here, and he'd laugh if he gave a fuck. Leaning against the door so as to spare his joints, he watched the healer. Patients came and went, each carrying their own little bundle of pain - until they all have left and only he remained. The healer hasn't spotted him, burdened with cleaning, stacking up blankets, stopping to write something down. Fading sunset painted the walls red and purple - a fitting palette, Samson thought, for a place dipped in misery so thoroughly it seemed to seep from the floorboards and sheets, and from the owner himself. There was anguish about him, like the depth in the eyes of a beaten dog - a subtle but constant fear.

He was strong though, this one. Bright and driven and good on the eye. They were always Samson's favorite - the unbroken ones.

"Cozy little place you have here."

Anders spun around, prepared to defend himself, but quickly lowered his hands at the sight of his late visitor. Samson grinned, scouring the clinic with just his eyes. Where could the bastard hide it?..

"What do you want?"

Considering it an invitation, Samson walked in and sat on one of the makeshift beds. His knees ached with every step, and he yearned for rest - one that never came. For a moment Pain took over; he panted like a dog, waiting at its mercy.

"You know what I want," he barked at last. "C'mon, I know you've got it. I'll even pay you. Solid gold for your little charity, how's that sound?"

Anders sized him with a look full of equal part disdain and pity - a hateful, brutally effective mixture. You can numb yourself to so much, even the voice of reason, but the guts of your very soul will always churn under that look. It reflects your self-image. An insect. A deformity.

"I've told you already. There's not enough gold in the whole of Kirkwall for you to buy it from me. You want my help, you ask for it. Who knows, perhaps I'm in a mood to help a _templar_ for a change. Otherwise, go bother the Carta."

"Help?" Samson let out a dry laughter. "I don't need help, I need lyrium. If you don't wanna sell, just say so and don't preach."

"Alright. Preaching's done with. Just stand up and walk through the door."

He tried. His knees were not on board. Pain has gated him into relative comfort of sitting down, and every strain put on his muscles invoked a strike of agony, like somebody whipped his legs whenever he tried to move. He took a breath and tried again, pushing forward with his arms. The arms weren't on board either. Along the way a shifty corner of the bed frame scratched his palm; he cried out and hunched over like a wounded animal, catching shallow breaths through the shock. He could feel Anders' eyes looking at him from above. Pretty golden eyes. He could almost reach them. Lunge, claw them out, have their gold drip into his hand. Spiteful bastard, little mean self-righteous son of a bitch.

He knew it would end this way. Pain was always nearby. The more dust he used to fend it off, the sooner it would come crawling back, grin full of sharp teeth, ready to taste his flesh. Every day without lyrium gave it more control, until after one days too many it became his absolute master.

"Fine," he grunted through clenched teeth. "You wanna help?.. Go ahead. Anything... sh-shit... anything to get me outta here."

"Ask for it. Don't forget _please_."

_Bastard fucker son of a bitch thrice cursed blighted clusterfuck of a magic bullshit-_

"Help me... _please_."

He only had a moment to wallow in utter humiliation before Anders yanked him upward, wrestling a pained howl out of his throat. He saw red, blacked out for a second, and would've collapsed had the healer not caught him by the waist. Clinging to him like a shipwrecked sailor, Samson found within himself to muse at Anders' strength. His muscles were thin but firm like wire, and he had the death grip of a viper.

"Where we goin?.."

"Upstairs. Don't want your screams warding off my patients." Anders stopped to pull Samson's arm over his neck. "How long have you been dry?"

"A few days... Can't remember..."

"It's just beginning, then. Wonderful."

The 'beginning' part didn't sound good, but at this point he didn't have much choice. The splash of purple on the wall changed into indigo; Anders pushed the back door with his foot and hauled him up the stairs, into a small attic room above the clinic - an abode he'd compiled from donated goods and makeshift furniture. Parchment sheets covered numerous holes in the walls, wheatpasted right over flaking plaster. There were books and small trinkets of some kind scattered on the floor. Samson paid them little mind, preoccupied with staying conscious.

The healer dropped him onto the single bed. Samson curled up against the wall, not even bothering to take off his boots. Pain was kneading his ribs, turning each breath into a spasm; he was sweating, and the damp chill was almost as much a torment as the dry fire in his throat.

As he struggled to regain control of his body, Anders clanked with some bottles over one of the boxes. He procured a small cup from under the bed (Samson chose not to wonder how long it's been there), poured a splash of red liquid from one flask and a droplet from another, then rocked the cup gently to stir the mixture. He was humming a long-forgotten tune that seemed to slip from his memory every now and then, causing him to start over. Same way Pain licked at the edge of Samson's mind, gone for one moment only to return in another, short-circuiting his thoughts into a loop. Lyrium, relief, pain. Lyrium, relief. Pain, lyrium. Relief. Pain.

Anders shoved the cup under his nose.

"Drink."

“What’s that?” He inspected the brown liquid with suspicion; it smelled faintly of rot and had tiny flowers floating on its surface. The healer waved him off, flipping impatiently through the pages of his grimoire.

“I told you to drink it, not stare at it... Oh come, if I wished to poison you, I’d just give you lyrium instead.”

“Touche.” Samson shrugged and gulped the potion down. Not like he had much to lose.

He had to put the cup down as a fit of violent cough clutched his lungs; the brew was somehow both icy cold and painfully hot, and has burned his palate. The room went blurry, but he blamed it on his watered eyes. The bed had certain gravity to it. It tugged at his limbs, pulled him down, inviting to collapse.

“You’ll sleep for a while now.” Anders’ face looked fluorescent through the blur, entrapped in the golden orb of his hair. “Saves you the trouble of running around digging for my stash. And me the trouble of babysitting you.”

“Bold of you... bold of you to assume... I’ll be able to fall asleep.” Samson licked his lips. His mouth was suddenly very dry and his body very warm.

“You will. I’ve drugged you.”

He hardly acknowledged the world swing upwards around him, the soft touch of wool against his cheek, firm grip offered readily as he fell. Then lights went out, and he was gone.

It's always quiet in the abbey. Not like a graveyard - for even graveyards aren't as forgotten by the living. There is no laughter or chanting or singing of birds. The grass doesn't move, as if afraid to disturb someone. There is no wind, no draft, and even book pages don't rustle when flipped. Silence is a vacuum that tugs on the eardrum.

Samson is nine years old. One out of a dozen, he follows the pack of kids and an old Chantry sister. He stops in the gallery that looks out into the yard. There is a visitor in the abbey, a new face. Anything new is preciously rare within these walls. The boy is curious.

Under a very old tree sits a very old woman. Her armor is covered in cracks and doesn't shine like the armor of Samson's trainers. Her face is too covered in cracks, like an ancient valley sliced by a thousand currents. She does not see him. She doesn't see anyone. She sits still on the marble bench, pressing a small blue vial to her chest. In her eyes floats absentminded joy, like a distant dream she's caught but a glimpse of. The longer Samson looks, the more it terrifies him. The cracks seem to deepen and darken, twisting into an image not reminiscent of a human face at all; in the depth of her misty pupils, beneath the stillness and the joy, is an _absence_. A complete, absolute lacking.

The boy turns and runs as fast as he can.

The pain he came in didn't compare to the pain he was in upon waking up. Fever shook him head to toe; nausea rocked his innards like a giant wave and he had to roll over quickly to empty his stomach onto the floor. Vomit left a sharp acidic taste in his mouth. He fell back, staring into the ceiling. Everything hurt, but the migraine was the worst. Like a giant hammer pounding on his skull. He took a moment to curse the healer along with all of his relatives, friends and loved ones.

Speak of the devil. Anders perked up in a chair, still half-asleep. He looked a little worse for wear; from this Samson determined that a certain amount of time had passed.

"I will tear your heart out and feed it to the rats."

"Not the worst fate I'd been promised. How do you feel?"

"Like I made it halfway to the other end and then changed my mind." His voice wheezed; he could kill for a sip of water. Thankfully Anders caught his wish and rushed to fill his cup.

"Here. Don't choke." He held the cup close to Samson's lips, and chuckled after noticing his hesitation. "Relax, it's just water. And don't give me that look. I could've locked you up and left, you know. Or would you prefer being tied to the bed posts?"

Samson meddled with response; the taste of water made his head spin. Its cold touch was intoxicating, more powerful than any booze. He never thought something so simple could make a man so ecstatic. Such was the bidding of Pain.

"Bondage isn't my thing, generally... How long was I out?"

"Close to a day." Anders watched him with a frown. "You don't sleep much at all, do you?"

"Not unless I get poisoned."

"Bah! Mess with a templar once and you'll never hear the end of it..." He paused, hesitating; Samson could almost hear him struggle with his prejudice. "You know it makes the cravings worse, right? Had you bothered to ask, I could've fixed you up sooner."

"Would you?.." Samson passed him the empty cup; he felt stupidly elated and could almost forgive the incessant sermons. "It's not the stuff. I haven't slept proper in years. I... see things. People. The Gallows. The abbey where I grew up. It's all a blur, but then there are these flashes... Childhood. Priests. Meredith. Maddox asking me where his letters are... Pain keeps me awake. It's good like that."

He read something close to pity in Anders' eyes and shook his head in annoyance. That wasn't the point. Nobody has to feel sorry for him. It's no use. He leaned back, eyes following the light from the window, and focused on taming the tremor in his shoulders.

He shuddered when something wet and soft touched his forehead. Anders wiped his sweat with care suited more for a loving mother. Samson forgot to look indignant; his vulnerable mind reveled in unexpected tenderness, someone finally not being afraid to touch him in - how long?.. He couldn't even remember last time he held somebody's hand.

"It's going to get worse," the healer spoke. "I'll do everything I can, but magic can only reach so far where lyrium is concerned. In fact, I'm not aware of any drug nor spell to completely replace it. Only to take the edge off."

"Can't you just give me another nighty-night potion?"

"I will, but there isn't enough in my stash to keep you under the whole time. I'm sorry."

Samson laughed. He's sorry! The irony was truly precious. Almost believable too. Funny, this one. Just like Maddox once was.

"You wretched little thing. You just like torturing me, don't you?"

Anders didn't smile. He pondered on the answer - longer than Samson liked. He almost drifted off in the tight embrace of Pain when the healer spoke up again.

"You'd think I would," he said. _"I thought I would_. For a while, killing templars was all I could think of. But it never helped. I watched people suffer and die at my hand, and all I felt was this... emptiness inside, like a well without water. The more I poured in, the more it wanted. And in return I was left with nothing."

Samson closed his eyes. If there was ever a part of him still clinging to the ways of the Chantry, it died the day Maddox was made Tranquil. He could still see it, the image burnt into his eyelids like a brand of ultimate failure. The door torn off its hinges, the shock visible through the faceless masks of his former comrades, and in the middle - him. But... not. His thousand-mile stare, like he didn't recognize the fucker who got him into this mess. Since then Samson had forgotten so much, as his mind decomposed from lyrium and insomnia and constant stress. But this one day, the one he'd love to forget, was stuck with him forever. Such was the bidding of Pain.

"We're not so different, you and I."

"You could always pack up and leave. No mage ever gets that choice."

"Choice?.. My parents gave me away when I was a wee lad. Didn't want another mouth to feed. The Revered Mother never failed to remind me of that... said the only way to make something of myself was through serving the Maker. And you know how it feels during Initiation?.. how it feels taking lyrium for the first time?.. It feels like the Maker. Nothing hurts. You're not tired. You don't need anything. After that, whenever you hear the chanting, it's like someone is tying a noose around your neck... Do you think I'd have stayed was it all about the Maker?.. No. It was never about Him. Lyrium is its own religion."

"Does that religion include burning lyrium into my lover's forehead? Does it help justify beating a pregnant woman until she miscarries?.. Lyrium didn't make you do that."

"I never said the Order was innocent... just that we weren't the ones who pulled the strings." Samson paused; he felt like his lungs were filled with liquid. Each word left a burning in his chest, suffocating him bit by bit. "Ever wonder... why we're fighting each other... instead of trying to pull back?.. It's all one game. The fear, the magic, the Chant... Do you know how _expensive_ lyrium is?.. Trade's cutthroat for a reason. If you make it... all the way to the top... you have no choice... but to end up rich. As in ashamed-of-yourself rich. And then, there's power... what would we do... without power?.."

"You're delirious." Anders shook his head and got up, stretching his long limbs. "Get some rest. There's a bucket under your bed, I'm sure you'll find use for it. I'll be back later. Try not to lose your last marbles in the meantime."

He left and locked the door, leaving Samson in the care of Pain.

He'd never managed to go clean before. Once, unable to purchase his new dose, he collapsed on the steps in Lowtown and remained there, barely conscious, for a few days. He woke up to a dog licking his eyes, trying to pry some skin off the bones. He caught it. Strangled it with his bare hands. Ate the liver, threw out the rest, flayed the hide with a sharp stone. Sold it to a refugee cobbler in Darktown. Bought more dust.

Time began to shift as he lay there, sometimes dozing off into the realm of nightmares, waking up more exhausted than before. He couldn't tell if it's been a few hours or a few days; only that at some point Pain started growing, gradually taking over his every nerve and organ. He tried to ignore it - hell, he'd take the nightmares over it - but the old friend circled him bit by bit, without rush, unavoidable like a stalking predator.

He knew that at some point he started whining quietly through the teeth; that over time the whining became a cry and the cry a scream; that, enveloped in a flame of agony, his body went stiff and arched over the bed like a grotesque bridge. There was no more him and Pain, only one soulless animal that cried, wailed and called - _someone, anyone, make it stop, I'll do anything, anything you want, make it stop, tell it to disappear, tell me to disappear..._

And then he was pushed down, and somebody held him by the throat and poured cold thick liquid into his mouth, and darkness receded, and Pain calmed down. The room shimmered in the soft light of magic that spread across his chest in slow, soothing waves.

"Anders..." He grabbed the healer's wrist and clutched it so tight the latter yelped in pain. "Anders. I can't. I can't do it. Please. Make it... stop. Please..."

Another fit of nausea caused him to bend over the bed; but there was nothing spare for acid in his stomach, and he froze in a painful seizure, crippled by his own body. Anders held him back with one hand and lifted his chin with another.

"Look at me, Raleigh Samson." His voice took on an odd metal shade, not like anything Samson's ever heard. Like there was more than one person behind it. "Look closely. I know you are in pain. I know you are frightened. But this is not who you are. There is more out there. More than what they made you."

None of it made any sense to his cornered brain, but the voice felt like a hard surface to fall on. Suddenly he was no longer drowning in the boundless waste; there was something to hold on to, even if he was too weak to grasp it. Pain gnawed at his joints; he curled up into a ball, smaller than he's ever been, smaller than a spec of sand, so infinitely non-existent... but still present.

"Please," he whimpered, his own voice breaking him from inside, "please... I can't take it... I can't..."

"You feel like you're going to die. Like the pain won't end. But it will. You can give up, but I will drag you forward. You will survive."

The voice stung his ears, but there was more to it than Pain. It held the carcass of his psyche, bound it together, like a dried-out string of muscle still holding two bones. Pain wanted him to scream, but his throat was so sore he couldn't utter a sound above a soft cry. And so he cried, wheezing through that broken mess of a body, shaking, fiery tears rolling down his hollow, scaly cheeks. He cried, and the voice echoed, soothing him with its promises. And he could not, would not believe the voice, but it didn't matter - so long as it prevented from slipping into the bottomless abyss where lived his oldest, closest, most treasured friend.

"Hold on to me. You will not die."

Pain rocked him in steady waves now, like the sea on a calm day. The voice didn't make him stronger, but it was strong enough for the Pain to fall back, leave him on the shore, still all around, still filling him to the brim - but not overwhelming.

In the unlikeliest of places, amidst the torture he himself has created, Samson did what he'd thought impossible.

He slept.

He woke up to the feeling of weight on his shoulders, and found himself half-buried in Anders' arms as the latter attempted to pull off his shirt.

"W-what y'doin..."

"You've scratched your skin into shreds. You're not catching an infection now, that's just insulting."

Samson found the strength - mostly of spirit - to help the healer free him of clothes, though he moved like in a dream, every part of him heavy and clumsy. Anders washed his mangled skin and put bandages on his torso. His touch was as careful as when he wiped Samson's forehead. How can a rat bastard like him be so good with his hands?.. Maybe it's just starvation. Anything goes when you haven't felt the warmth of another human body for so long.

Sometimes the faces he saw in his dreams would start jutting out of the walls, and he spoke to them to distract himself. Once he found himself on the floor, crawling between the boxes, looking for what he knew wasn't actually there. He couldn't make it back and ended up spending almost two hours on the unpolished boards, listening to the sounds coming from below, his world a uniform heap of misery. Thus he fell into oblivion again and came back to the sound of Anders' voice; cursing more out of worry than anger, the healer picked and carried him back. How light he has become. Like a bird or a child.

When Samson's consciousness decided to rejoin him for good, the light in the window indicated a grey, colorless afternoon. What week?.. He didn't hurry to start moving - there was little life left within him and he felt like a piece of furniture more than a living person. Most offensive, strangely, was the odor. He was never sensitive to such details, but the smell of everything he went through, concentrated into almost tangible substance, made him shiver and brought tears to his eyes. He couldn't even describe or pick it apart; the only identifiable quality was 'filth'.

And yet, he was alive. Pain cradled his bones, steady and familiar. There was even something endearing about it. _Looks like I'm stuck with you._

Footsteps and laughter outside the door indicated two people approaching. Samson had a moment to wonder who the second visitor might be, before the answer let himself into the room - a stocky, excessively long-haired man in finely cut leathers, armed and carrying a canvas bag full of fresh food. He studied Samson with a skeptic look and then delivered,

"Wow. I've met darkspawn prettier than you are."

"And I've met dogs with better manners," Samson returned with a scowl. Hawke took the joke with a chuckle and focused on unloading his bag. Anders took Samson's pulse, felt his forehead, and concluded,

"Well, you're not dead, despite the looks of it. You should eat if you can. Then I'll see if I can't drag you into a bathtub somewhere..." He paused to think, knitting his brow. Samson studied his face and noticed the shade of a week-old stubble on the healer's chin and dark shadows under his eyes. Has the bastard even slept in all this time?..

Hawke interrupted them by throwing Anders a large crimson apple.

"Here ya go, handsome. Need a hand with your... specimen? 'Cause if you do, count me out. I'm not touching him."

Anders gave him a tender smile - the kind Samson has seen on Maddox's face when he was reading a new letter. He took the chance to swipe the apple out of the healer's hands. Just on principle.

"Thanks, Ga--Hawke. Don't worry, I'll just be a moment, alright?"

Hawke shrugged, graced Samson with a wink, and saw himself out as confidently as he let himself in. Samson tried his best not to laugh.

"What's so funny?"

"Nothing... Well, nothing Hawke needs to know anyway."

If Anders could immolate objects with his eyes, he'd probably burn a hole in Samson's chest. Almost cute, really. Although the bastard has probably skipped the whole staring-longingly-from-afar stage in exchange for the part where he was not good enough. Boring idiot.

"Listen," the healer spoke, "you're sober now and that's good. But without help you'll just end up back where you were. Feel free to stay as long as you like. When you're strong enough, go see Nora in Lowtown. Tell her I sent you. She could always use an extra hand. And... stop by every now and then. I'm not always around, but I'll make time for you when I can."

Samson stared at him for a long while. Deep inside him, the Pain stared too.

"You're a weird self-righteous fuck."

"You're welcome."


End file.
